Sight Unseen

She never sees. Each time her lover blindfolds her a block away. She never sees to which nondescript brick industrial building he takes her. She never sees the stairs down which he leads her, nor the door through which they pass. She never sees whose voice it is that greets them. She never sees the giggling young women who help her from her clothes, each and every last item until she stands in all her naked splendor. She never sees those who admire her, who lust for her, who soon will have her. She never sees.

She never sees who takes her from her lover's side. She never sees the rooms to which she's led. She never sees who she's passed to. She never sees who she stands with, whose side she follows obediently at, who she's presented to. She never sees who touches her with such intimate familiarity. She never sees who she's bidden to kneel before, nor to whom she relinquishes herself. She never sees any of the people in this strange, mysterious place. She never sees the apparatuses she's put over, or onto, or into. She never sees the implements used upon her delicate flesh. She never sees those who enjoy her, who have her. She never sees who leaves their essence so deep within her, or their taste upon her lips, or their mark upon her body. She never sees who watches.

She never sees. But she knows each one intimately.

She knows their lips, their fingers, their passions. She knows each of her mysterious strangers by the sounds of their voices. She knows the feel of their skin, the intimacy of their hands. She knows how they touch her, how they caress her. She knows with but a fleeting touch who has her at any time. She knows the scent of their cologne, of their perfume. She knows their more intimate scents too. She knows their bittersweet tastes, each one slightly different than any other. She knows how they feel beside her in bed, holding her, cradling her. She knows how they feel atop her. She knows the rugged day-old stubble, the strong jaw lines, the gently, perfectly shaped breasts, the smooth-as-a-baby's-bottom pubes. She knows the silky thighs, the flowing tresses, the strong chests and even stronger passions. She knows how they move, how they kiss, how they make love. She knows how they feel within her and upon her. She knows how each takes their pleasure of her body, and how each reciprocates. She knows how they feel in her arms at the peak of their passion. She knows their most intimate secrets, whispered to her as they lie together afterward. She never sees, but she knows each one intimately.

She could pass them on the street and she would never know. Here she knows them, but by the light of day she wouldn't have a hope in the world. Who sees her each day and knows, she wonders? Who knows this shy, self-conscious sweet young thing who goes through each day blushing inwardly, for she never knows if the stranger she passes on the street, or in the coffeehouse, or in the library, or in the elevator, knows her the way she knows them? Every man she sees she wonders: does he know her tightness? Does he know her lips, her tongue, her gentle fingers? Does he know how she feels beneath him? Does he know how she grimaces at the peak of her pleasure, and how desperately she writhes whenever her pale bottom is warmed? Every woman she sees she wonders: Is she the one who smells so sweet, who tastes so lovely? Is she the wicked one who likes to tease her all night long, who likes to leave her mark so strongly upon her body that a week later it still lingers? Or is she the one who she's never seen but who she loves with all her heart for how gently she treats her, for how warm her tenderness is, for how she holds her and cradles her and makes love to her?

She yearns, she aches. She lusts for the next time her lover will blindfold her and lead her sight unseen into the unknown. For those fleeting moments of blind abandon she lives a life aroused, wondering which smiling stranger she meets has had her, which man or woman she passes on the street recognizes her, which nondescript building she passes by is The One within which she's rent and ravished, and within which she will be again. She doesn't know, but in her mind's eye she sees. It's every one...

Every man, every woman, every building. It's her world unseen, to where she yearns to be led again and where in her blindness she'll once more know the passions of her strangers. She won't see, but she'll know.

And for that more than anything she aches.